


1776 - Deleted Scenes

by oh_mr_adams



Category: 1776 (1972), 1776 - Edwards/Stone
Genre: Alternate Canon, Canon Era, Fluff and Angst, M/M, One Shot Collection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-22 07:43:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19662883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_mr_adams/pseuds/oh_mr_adams
Summary: Only available on Laserdisc™





	1. Sunset

It was all quite innocuous, really. John’s hand pressed lightly against Thomas’s back, just light enough for Thomas to feel the warmth through his waistcoat, as John leaned over his shoulder to register his progress. Thomas, not quite annoyed enough to say anything would press the back of his knuckles against John’s cheek, gentle enough to insinuate the motions of pushing him away, but not forceful enough to actually do it. John would read his rather meager progress on the document, uncharacteristically silent, then he would sigh and turn away, leaving Thomas with a gripping embarrassment in his chest.    


The same thing would take place every single evening, gentle touches and disapproving looks as John wandered meaninglessly around his apartment. The sound of John’s footsteps, quiet as they were, grated against Thomas’s consciousness and one particular evening he breathed in sharply and snapped up to look at the man pacing back and forth in front of his desk. John stopped in his tracks and met his eyes with a mixture of hope and questioning.  
  
“Mr. Adams, haven’t you anywhere better to be?” Thomas asked testily, leaning back into his seat, dropping one arm lazily over his stomach and slowly spinning his quill pen through his fingers. John’s eyebrows shifted upwards and the corners of his lips pressed into his cheeks in a frown.  
  
“No,” he said sharply and folded his arms over his chest, “I haven’t.” John strode over to Thomas’s side in a way that never failed to make Thomas a tad insecure of his own lack of progress and pressed his hand into its usual spot on Thomas’s back. As he leaned over, Thomas could feel John’s breath faintly against his cheek, and his shoulders slumped with a sigh. John reached out and allowed his finger to hover just barely above the still-wet ink. “That’s good.”  
  
Thomas couldn’t tell what he was pointing at, his eyes were drawn to John’s hand, small, yet strong, and he blinked away thoughts of how that hand would feel pressed against his bare skin. “A compliment?” He asked quietly, sarcasm and disbelief lacing his voice, “Who are you and what have you done with John Adams?” With a huff, John straightened and gave a gentle slap to the back of Thomas’s head.  
  
“That’s one good sentence, you still have a good many more to go,” he said firmly, returning to his usual pacing back and forth across the room. Thomas, thoroughly annoyed, chewed on the inside of his cheek, folding his arms across his chest and tapping the feather of his pen against his side.  
  
“Well, I’m sure it would be much easier to focus without your constant distraction,” he enunciated through gritted teeth. John paused and looked over to him again, looking suddenly quite hurt, and tugged on the lapels of his coat.   
  
“Well… yes,” John said quietly, biting his lower lip. He squared his shoulders, still gripping his lapels firmly, and gave Thomas a brief nod, not meeting his eyes. “Goodnight then,” he said sharply, before striding across the room and shutting the door behind him with a flourish of his coat. Thomas’s mouth fell open, utterly confused. He simply hadn’t expected John to actually take what he said to heart, and his eyebrows furrowed with a mixture of inexplicable feelings. With a sigh, he swiveled back and forth rhythmically in his seat, his eyes glued to the orange hues of sunset outside of his window. Something inside of him didn’t want to look down at the pathetic progress he’d made, the thought of it giving him the faint beginning of a headache. 

Thomas wasn’t sure how many times he’d lazily spun around in his seat, but by the time he’d surfaced from the murky depths of his thoughts, the golden orange had settled to purple darkness, heralding the coming night. The air in his apartment was heavy and stale, to the point that Thomas felt that if he remained seated where he was he’d begin to asphyxiate, so he slowly pushed himself up from his chair, wincing at the dull ache in his back and giving a quiet groan as he stretched himself out. His eyes lingered on the door, his mind thinking back to Mr. Adams’ abrupt exit, and he chewed lightly on his lip before heading towards it, not bothering with his shoes.   
  
A gust of fresh air, still hot but not quite so uncomfortable disrupted the papers on Thomas’s desk as he pulled the door open and stepped out into the darkness. The streets were lit with a dull flickering of streetlamps and the cold glow of the moon, and the porch was comfortably cool under his feet. A soft sigh of relief escaped his lips as he leaned out over the railing, staring down onto the cobblestoned street, the rancorous thoughts in his mind finally blanketed in harmonious quietude. Yet a dull shape nudged his curiosity from the corner of his eye. Thomas turned and there, at the bottom of the stairs, sat Mr. Adams. Thomas wasn’t sure whether to feel humored or annoyed. He stared for a good while, pondering his feelings until he slowly stepped down the stairs. Lingering just above John, Thomas couldn’t help but smirk at the way John’s shoulders slowly rose and fell with every quiet snore, his head resting against the railing. Thomas’s hand found it’s way to John’s back.  
  
“John,” he said quietly, once, twice, until John’s eyes blinked open and looked up at him, bright and round as the moon above them. “John,” Thomas repeated, “What are you doing here?” Thomas could tell the man was blushing, though he couldn’t see, as John shrugged heavily, looking away from him. Thomas crouched slightly, rubbing his hand across John’s back. The twitching at the corners of John’s lips gave away his embarrassment at being found, and Thomas couldn’t help but smile, lowering his head until his cheek brushed up against John’s ear. “Come up to bed,” he whispered. John smiled.  
  
“Alright.”


	2. Noon

John leaned heavily over the railing, staring down at the rooftops and streets below him. Horses trotted slowly down the streets, pulling carriages behind them in turn, as people shuffled along the streets, all in an effort to escape from the violently burning sun glaring down from overhead. Vertigo caused a nauseous roiling in his stomach and John’s head jerked up with a slight gasp, a faint dizziness in his head. He replayed the events of the day in his mind, the resolution proposed by America’s… orangest delegate, the constant fighting, the bickering over who’d write the declaration. At least, he mused, something had gotten done today. He’d finally accomplished something in his year of trying, though it did little to ease the aching exhaustion that had seeped into his bones over the previous months. The exhaustion and the discontentment. He closed his eyes, rubbing his hand against his forehead in an attempt to quiet the constant pounding in his brain.   
  
With a sharp cry of shock, he was jolted from his thoughts with a hand slapping against his back, then sliding to firmly squeeze his shoulder. He blinked rapidly at the man who he hadn’t heard approaching. “Heya, Johnny,” said Richard with his signature grin. John blinked again, more heavily.   


“I thought you had to be in Virginia,” he said bluntly. Richard frowned, though only for a moment, and pulled his hand from John’s shoulder, resting his arms on the railing and leaning out into the sunlight.   
  
“I’ve got time,” he responded dismissively, and John gave a noncommital hum, leaning out beside him. John was silent for a long while, unsure of what to do. He usually came up here to be alone, only the custodian ever really followed him and that wasn’t exactly for quality conversation. John looked to the man beside him, who was gazing out upon the infinitely unfolding horizon without any discernible expression. Something about the whole situation felt odd to John, the unusual silence from the normally overly excited Virginia delegate feeling quite absurd.   
  


“They really want you to be the governor of Virginia, Richard?” He asked abruptly, the disbelief eminent in his voice. Richard fixed him with a slightly annoyed look, dark eyes hooded under heavy eyelashes, and John bit down on the inside of his cheek, turning his gaze back to the horizon. The sun hovered quite annoyingly above him, overly bright and overly hot, and John simply just wanted to close his eyes and put his head in his arms.   
  
“No,” Richard replied after a while, “They don’t.” John blinked in confusion and turned to him again, unable to meet his eyes as Richard stared off into the distance.   
  
“Then what?” John asked, his eyebrows furrowing. Richard straightened but didn’t turn his gaze from the horizon, his hands gripping the railing tightly. The whiteness of his knuckles betrayed his composure.   
  
“My family’s sick,” he said bluntly, “I returned to bring the resolution but…” he let out a shaky sigh. “I really ought to be there.” John’s eyebrows went up in concern and he slowly moved to place a hand on Richard’s arm. He gave him a gentle squeeze, though Richard didn’t seem to respond, and John shifted closer.  
  
“Why haven’t you left yet?” John asked quietly, steadily with no accusation in his voice. Richard remained still for a long time, but when he finally turned to face him, John felt a raw pang of sympathy in his chest. Dark brown eyes that were tinted gold in the right light, glossed over with pain and a deep, inescapable sadness.   
  
“I’m a coward.”  
  
John shifted closer again and rested his head against Richard’s arm. “You’re many things, Richard, but not that.” Richard only gripped the railing tighter, and John could almost sense the gritting of his teeth.  
  
“Then why am I too scared to leave?” He growled through a squared jaw, forcefully keeping any emotion out of his voice. John slowly ran a hand up and down Richard’s arm, closing his eyes and feeling the sun warm his face.  
  
  
“Because these things are scary.” Silence hung for a moment after until Richard gave a pathetic laugh and swung an arm around John’s shoulders.  
  
  
“Yeah,” he said shakily, “Yeah, I guess they are.” John gave a small smile despite the sadness that hung in the air, and the two stood in silence until the sun started to drift slowly down into the horizon. John was on the verge of falling asleep, resting against Richard’s shoulder, when the other man suddenly stepped away, gripping both of John’s shoulders in his hands and staring him down, to the point that their foreheads would have touched if not for the vast height difference. John stared back up at him with wide, confused eyes as Richard’s eyebrows furrowed in determination.  
  
  
“Can I-” Richard cut himself off. “Yes, I suppose I can,” he reasoned with a shrug. John cocked his head to the side.  
  
  
“Can you what?”  
  
  
“I can trust you to take care of everything here, yeah? Of course I can. You always do,” Richard gave him a shaky grin. “And you’re awfully good at it.”  
  
  
John grinned back. “You really think so?” Richard nodded forcefully.  
  
“I know so.” John made a sudden surprised noise as Richard pulled him into a hug, pressing his face into his chest and squeezing him tightly. John quickly relaxed into Richard’s embraced and swung his arms around the man’s waist, squeezing him back in return. “Thank you, Johnny,” Richard whispered into John’s hair. 


	3. Afternoon

James always looked forward to the carriage ride home alongside John, John’s arm tossed lazily across his shoulders as they watched the city roll past them. James’ hand wandered around his lap until it rested upon the seat between them, just barely brushing against John’s thigh. John was still grinning, still so full of excited energy knowing that he was the one thing keeping all of the sensible men of congress together, the one thing standing between his beloved country and total destruction. The eye of his own private hurricane of sense and sensibility.  
  
If believing these things made John Dickinson happy, James was more than happy to oblige him. James stared out of his own side of the carriage, trying to ignore how his hand wandered around John’s thigh, his fingers making little indentations in the soft green fabric, and he could almost feel John smirking beside him. The thought of it made James smirk to himself as well, and as much as he enjoyed these carriage rides, he wished they’d simply hurry up and arrive at home where he could finally drop his inhibitions. Or, as far as James Wilson was capable of dropping his inhibitions. He was practically one whole inhibition in and of himself, he thought glumly. Still, the feeling of John’s arm moving against his shoulders, John’s fingers discreetly playing against the hair at the nape of his neck reeled him out of his thoughts, and he gave John’s thigh a firm squeeze. John slowly leaned over and James could feel the warmth radiating from him as John’s lips neared his ear.   
  
“Patience, James,” John murmured, and James shivered at the sensation of breath against his cheek. Contrary to popular belief, James was a man of limited patience, despite what his constant deference to Mr. Dickinson might bring one to believe. He deferred to him, of course, not necessarily because he unyieldingly believed that John was right, that John was taking the best course of actions, but because it was simply easier than doing anything else. James was a man of convictions, he had them, yes, whether he cared to act on them was another matter entirely. He only truly cared to act upon his convictions when they were tucked up alone in their apartment, their private little haven away from the raging storm outside.  
  
Of course, John often brought his work home with him, as he felt intent upon doing that afternoon, James noted with a resigned sigh. John was still talking about something, something James had tuned out a long while ago, something about work, about arguments, about something James never felt strongly towards either way. As John unlocked the door to their apartment his head jerked up to meet James’ eyes.   
  
“Are you even listening to me, James?” He asked, somewhere between exhaustion and impatience. James blinked and nodded.  
  
“Of course, John,” he assured him as they went inside, John letting his hand rest softly on James’ lower back. The pair went through their usual daily rituals, removing each others’ coats and hanging them upon their hooks, the gentle brushes of hands against skin now a common comfort for the both of them. His coat hung neatly by the door, John put his arms around James’ waist and rested his chin upon his shoulder, breathing slowly in a warm and familiar silence. James placed his own hands over John’s, rubbing his thumb across his knuckles as John’s breath tickled his ear. The warmth of the afternoon was pervasive, leaching in golden through the windows and settling heavily upon James’ skin. John’s warmth though was another matter, this was welcome and lovely and gone far too soon when John straightened again and pulled his arms from James’ body, brushing his hand across his back in a motion asking him to join him in their usual spot on the sofa. James didn’t move and watched John slink across the room, loosening his cravat with one finger before collapsing gracefully down against the pillows, resting his head atop the armrest. James smiled to himself and followed, but paused in front of the coffee table, picking up a stray document. John cringed.   
  
“Don’t look at that, James, it isn’t finished yet.” James smiled.  
  
“It’s quite good though.”   
  


John rolled his eyes. “You think everything I write is good.” James couldn’t deny it and just gave a slight shrug as he continued to read. John sighed. “Put it down. Please. Join me.” It was the closest, James figured, that John would ever come to begging, so he obliged him dropping the document back down onto the table and lowering himself carefully down onto the couch. With a soft noise in the back of his throat, John moved to put his head in James’ lap, as was customary for them by now, and stared up at him. James removed the ribbon holding John’s hair up and tossed it aside, causing John to smile and James to smile in return as he pushed his fingers through John’s hair. John closed his eyes with a sigh, this time one of agitation as he rubbed at his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.  
  
“Oh James, James, James,” he murmured. James didn’t respond, only continued playing with his hair. “That goddamned John Adams. It’s like he just wants everyone to hate him.”   
  
“I don’t think so,” James shrugged, and John opened one eye.   
  
“Really?” John asked, with a dark sharpness in his voice. James noticed it but paid it no mind.   
  
“Really,” James confirmed, causing John to fold his arms across his chest.  
  
“What makes you say that?”  
  
James shrugged again. “He’s a lot kinder than he seems, you know. More sensible. Smarter.” John blinked up at him.  
  
“Smarter?” He asked testily, tension rising in his voice. James smirked.  
  
“Yes, definitely.” John reached into his hair to touch James’ hand.  
  
“Smarter than me?”  
  
James smiled, moving his hand down to cup John’s cheek. “No, no, of course not John.” John gave a little huff and stared up at the ceiling, a rosy indignation warming his cheeks.

“Of course not.”


	4. Morning

The sunlight burned against Lyman’s eyes when he opened them, so he quickly closed them again and buried himself back into his pillows. When he’d first headed to Philadelphia he’d stupidly expected it to be cooler than Georgia, but every single day seemed dead set on proving him wrong, and the invasive heat was nigh but inescapable. He groaned into his pillow at the thought that it would only get hotter, but the sound of a low chuckle beside him brought a smile to his face despite himself. The presence of the man beside him brought a different kind of warmth, not invasive but deep and familiar. Comfortable. He slowly picked his head up off the pillow, enough to look at the man beside him, but not enough to resemble the motions of actually getting up.   
  
“Good morning to you too, Mr. Rutledge,” he said quietly, before yawning, a tired smile on his face. Edward rolled over onto his side to look at him, tilting Lyman’s chin up gently with the tips of his fingers. Lyman stared up into those absurdly blue eyes for a good moment.  
  
“Good morning, doctor,” he drawled, with that familiar yet alien voice that always sent shivers up Lyman’s spine. Lyman grinned and put an arm around Edward’s waist, shifting closer and burying his face in Edward’s neck, his lips brushing against the man’s collar bone. Edward’s hand drifted to Lyman’s back, his fingers pulling gently through his hair. “Now,” he purred, “Dear doctor, don’t you think it’s about time we were getting up?” Lyman scowled into Edward’s neck.  
  
“I’m sure they won’t miss us if we’re late,” he mumbled, slowly, carefully intertwining his legs with Edward’s. He heard the other man make an exaggerated gasp of surprise as he twisted Lyman’s hair through his fingers.  
  
“And to think I once thought you some kind of goody-two-shoes suck up,” Edward purred sarcastically, causing Lyman to give an annoyed huff. Edward smirked, knowing he’d found his mark. “Mr. Stick-up-his-ass.”  
  
“There is really no need for that, Mr. Rutledge,” Lyman said quietly, but firmly, not moving his lips from Edward’s collarbone. It was getting annoyingly hot, but Edward had kept him up to all hours of the night prior, drinking and talking and generally enjoying each other’s company, and the thought of getting up again made Lyman’s head ache.   
  
“It’s true though,” Edward said with a smile, “You’re a people pleaser.” Lyman gave an annoyed grunt against Edward’s neck.   
  
“I am not.”  
  
Edward laughed, leaning back slightly and pushing Lyman’s bangs out of his face. “You are too! I bet you have a million opinions on things you won’t talk about just because you’re afraid of upsetting things.” Lyman looked up at him through furrowed eyebrows, his dark eyes tired and annoyed, yet with a faint shimmer of amused fondness.  
  
“Opinions like, _Edward Rutledge is an annoying idiot and I certainly wish he’d shut up and let me go back to sleep?_ ” Edward laughed again, giving a gentle tug to Lyman’s hair.   
  
“Yes, just like that.”   
  
Lyman stared up at him again for another brief moment before yawning and burying himself back in Edward’s neck. “Well there, I said it. Now let me sleep.”  
  
“Whatever you want, people pleaser,” Edward chided, resulting in a light kick to his shin.   
  
“I am not a people pleaser!” Lyman whined pathetically, rolling over onto his back and folding his arms across his chest, scowling up at the ceiling. Edward sat up with his usual smirking confidence, continuing to play with Lyman’s hair.  
  
“Prove it,” he said matter-of-factly, enunciating it in a way he was sure would annoy the other man.   
  
“I figure I’m doing that right now, aren’t I?” Lyman said flatly, continuing to stare up at the ceiling as Edward grinned. Edward shifted closer, leaning on his elbow and resting his chin in his hand.  
  
“No, no, doctor, I’ll assure you that I’m quite pleased.”  
  
Lyman glanced over at him with a breathy laugh and gave him a gentle shove. “Oh, shut up.” Lyman stared back up at the ceiling, getting minutely more annoyed with each passing second. He sat up pointedly with a huff, folding his arms over his chest again. “I am not a people pleaser!” He whined again, hoping that perhaps if he said it enough it would be true.  
  
“Again,” Edward said smugly, “You’ve yet to offer any proof of that statement.” Lyman turned slightly, looking down to face him. Something about that smirk, that confidence that was so internalized it was basically just a part of who Edward was, both amazed and annoyed him. Lyman blinked, then flicked Edward on the nose. “Ow!” Edward shot up and covered his nose in his hands in indignation.  
  
“Well, perhaps I will.”  
  
Edward grinned, putting his hands back down into his lap, a wild sort of provocation in his eyes. “I’d love to see it.”


	5. Night

“You know, Charles,” Hancock slurred, swinging his arm wildly to enliven his point, causing rum to spill haphazardly from his mug, “You really need to get out more.”   
  
John had invited Charles out to drink hours ago and they’d gone through countless rounds since, John naturally getting louder and more affectionate, and Charles getting closer and closer to crying, as he always did when he drank. He looked down into the murky depths of his rum, little ripples disturbing his reflection as John slammed his own mug down onto the table.   
  
“And you really need to cheer up a little,” John continued, reaching across the table to grab Charles’ shoulder. “Independence has been declared. We did it,” he enunciated, hoping that if he said it forcefully enough Charles would get the point. Charles simply sighed, looking around the tavern. Various delegates in various degrees of drunkenness were strewn about the room, Dickinson being the only one missing from the festivities. Adams was perched precariously on a table, shouting as he was wont to do, but for once no one was telling him to sit down. The mood was generally much more lively than Charles was used to, and with another sigh he took another swig from his mug. He set it down much more heavily than he’d intended to and winced at the noise. “Why are you so miserable anyway?” John asked with another squeeze to his shoulder. Charles blinked at him heavily.  
  
“People are dying, John.” He said glumly and left it at that. John removed his hand from Charles’ shoulder and rested his chin in it, staring up at him.   
  
“That’s generally something that happens, Mr. Thomson,” John replied slowly, with a fair amount of gentle incredulousness. Charles looked up at him for a long moment before his eyes filled up with tears and he looked back down into his mug. John groaned, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “Christ, Charles, you really are a miserable drunk.” Charles simply nodded his agreement and John sighed. Charles leaned his head against the wall, running the tip of his finger along the table, over grooves and dents made by years of misplaced knives. He sniffed pathetically and John shot up from his seat with a frustrated groan. Charles blinked up at him slowly as he was heaved to his feet by John’s hands on his shoulders, his head swimming with the beginnings of a dull, drunken headache. He nearly toppled over when John let go of his shoulders, so John grabbed him again, acting as a makeshift crutch as he dragged Charles out of the tavern.  
  


“John-” Charles mumbled, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. His legs didn’t seem to want to work with him and his height was proving to be trouble for the both of them. “John,” he slurred again, “What are we doing? What are you doing?”   
  
“I had,” John gasped, “To get you out of there. If I had to watch you cry into your rum like it had killed your pet cat for one more minute I would have started crying too.” Charles scowled at that, using what was left of his motor skills to tug at John’s hair in annoyance.   
  
“I wasn’t crying, John. You’d know if I was crying. I am a cryer.” John stopped in his tracks, breathing heavily from the exertion of carrying most of Charles’ weight.  
  
“Trust me,” he growled, “I know.” Charles smiled at that and pressed his cheek to the top of John’s head as they continued walking. Charles wasn’t sure how long they’d walked but eventually cobblestone streets gave way to soft grass and trees became less and less sparse. It was a park, Charles slowly realized, not far from the Statehouse. John was wheezing uncomfortably under him and when they stopped Charles slowly detangled himself from John’s grip. John bent over, leaning heavily with his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. Charles found it to be utterly hilarious, drunkenly snorting as John glared up at him. “Do you have any idea how heavy you are?” Charles’ laughter stopped immediately and he glared in return, giving John a gentle slap on the back of the head.   
  
“Don’t be rude,” he said pointedly as he sat down on the edge of a moss-covered fountain, which was not exactly fountaining but still full of murky water and… Charles picked up a handful of algae only to make a disturbed noise and flail it off. John smirked down at him and sat down beside him. “I’m still not sure what we’re doing here,” Charles said, staring intently at a frog that had just hopped out of a leafy green plant.   
  
“I told you, I had to get you out of there before you went entirely despondent.” Charles gave a quiet hum of agreement and John continued. “I mean you really are terrible when you’re drunk,” John complained with a wave of his hand, “You’re so miserable. And heavy.” Charles glared over at him and gave him a shove, much more forcefully than he’d intended, sending him backward into the fountain. It took a brief moment for Charles to register what had happened, but he then broke out laughing as John disgustedly wiped algae from his coat. “Oh, I suppose you think that’s funny, do you?” He asked testily before yanking hard on Charles’ collar and dragging him down into the fountain beside him. Charles shrieked in a mixture of outrage and shock and scrambled to get out, panting heavily as he laid down on the grass.   
  
“I am… wet,” he mumbled. John gave a breathy laugh, sitting down beside him after removing his soaked coat.   
  
“Yes. You most certainly are.” A moment of silence followed before the two broke out in laughter again, war and politics momentarily forgotten.

**Author's Note:**

> These are not actually available on Laserdisc™


End file.
